The Right to Dream
by XxRoGuExHeArTxX
Summary: A fluffy HarryDraco slash ficlet, complete. Includes Harry, a guitar, the song Superman by Five For Fighting, and some comforting compliments of Draco. COMPLETE.


Author's Note: Don't know what to say, I'm terrible at songfics, but I try anyway. That is, if you can even call this a songfic. More like a fic inspired and including the song "Superman" by Five For Fighting. Just a harmless, fluffy lil Harry/Draco fic, sorry if it's too terrible. Hope you enjoy, and please remember to review!

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, so blah.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

It started like it had every night for the past week; clumsy fingers scrambling over notes, plucking out chords, tightening strings. A twang, a snap, a curse as his hand slipped, or a string snapped or a gust of wind through the window would cause the pages of music to flutter across the floor. Every time Draco Malfoy would have to cover his mouth to keep from sniggering outright, despite the predictability of it all. Every time he'd huddle down beneath his cloak, pressing back against the doorframe so as not to be caught spying. Spying.. that made it sound bad, and sneaky. This wasn't spying, not really. This was... observing.

That's what Draco had told himself initially anyway when he'd first heard the music over a week ago. He'd been patrolling the halls, watching for a stray Ravenclaw coming back late from the library, or a Gryffindor sneaking down to the kitchens. Any excuse to exercise his rights as a prefect, really. However, when he saw the dim candlelight beneath the crack of an empty classroom on the 6th floor and heard the deep, thrumming flow of notes from within, his curiosity took over. It was curiosity that kept him sitting huddle beneath his cloak until near dawn the next morning, listening to the quiet shuffle of pages being turned as song after song was plucked out from what he would soon learn was an old muggle guitar. It was curiosity that kept him coming back each night to listen. It was curiosity that had eventually led him to push the door open a crack, just to see who this mysterious musician was. And it was strictly curiosity, or so he told himself, that kept him from piling on a mass of detentions for repeatedly broken curfew, even when he discovered said musician was none other than Harry Potter.

Thus Draco could be found on a cold evening in early December hunched against the doorjamb of a dusty, abandoned classroom, cloak drawn up like a blanket as he peered through a crack in the door. Harry was, as always, seated on a rickety old desk, legs dangling to brush the floor, guitar cradled in his lap, back facing toward Draco. However, unlike most nights, was the addition of a music stand. And, just like every night for the past week it began the same; clumsy fingers scrambling over notes, plucking out chords, tightening strings. Except that when this was done Harry flipped through the pages of the book on the stand, squinted at the notes, and began to play with a melancholy passion Draco had never seen before. And then... Harry began to sing.

"I can't stand to fly

I'm not that naïve,

I'm just out to find

The better part of me..."

Draco was utterly shocked. In all the nights he'd watched and listened, Harry had never sang, or even hummed. He had always been absolutely silent, besides the occasional sighs and curses. Somehow this was much more personal, and suddenly Draco felt as if he was intruding.

"I'm more than a bird,

I'm more than a plane,

I'm more than some pretty face beside a train,

And it's not easy... to be me..."

Harry's voice was low and soft and scratchy and Draco had to strain to hear what he was saying. Perhaps he had merely been observing earlier, but this was most certainly spying. This was the Boy-Who-Lived, pouring out his heart and soul in song, alone and isolated, or so he thought. Draco really felt as if he should leave, but found himself rooted to the spot.

"I wish that I could cry,

Fall upon my knees,

Find a way to lie,

Bout a home I'll never see..."

Harry's voice was strained and cracking with emotion, shoulders tense and trembling and Draco felt as if he might be ill. Sitting every night and listening to Potter play silly songs on his guitar had made him feel sneaky and powerful, like hiding a juicy secret. It had been nice too, in a completely detached sort of way, a way that would have made him feel warm and content had it been anyone but Potter...

"It may sound absurd,

But don't be naive,

Even heroes have the right to bleed..."

Except that Potter had turned his head and now Draco could see the tears staining his cheeks glistening in the candlelight and he wasn't feeling quite as detached anymore...

"I may be disturbed,

But won't you concede,

Even heroes have the right to dream.."

Very far from detached as Draco realized that what would have normally been an overly dramatic, self-pity sort of song was incredibly befitting to the crumbling hero locked away from the world in a moment of pain. A hero of what... 16? 17 perhaps, with the weight of the world on his scrawny shoulders. A hero with no family, no outlandish abilities save a stubborn habit of breathing and a lot of dumb luck. A hero who was famous and beloved for something he couldn't even remember. A hero who, despite the lyrics, looked as if he might not have dreamed in a long time...

"And it's not easy.. to be me..."

There was a loud echoing clatter as the guitar fell forward, tumbling to the ground, Harry slumping off the desk not far behind into a boneless, trembling, sobbing mass on the floor and Draco found that, consequences be damned, he could sit there no longer. He was on his feet instantly, pushing through the barrier of space he'd previously been content to leave between them, sinking down beside the Gryffindor on the floor. Draco wanted to say something, anything to stop the tears, but his mind was so busy fighting over whether to call him "Potter" or make a feeble attempt at the name "Harry" that eventually he just pulled the startled boy into his arms and made hushing noises that he hoped were reassuring while rubbing slow, steady circles on his back.

"Malfoy?"

Overly bright green eyes blinked up unfocused at him from behind tear stained glasses. Draco considered trying to smile but figured it would just look odd and instead opted for removing the skewed spectacles and drawing Harry into a tight hug.

By the time Harry had cried himself out Draco's left leg from the knee down was so numb he could no longer tell whether or not he was wiggling his own toes, and his back had begun to ache from rocking slowly back and forth. Normally even the slightest discomfort would have had Draco complaining incessantly, but oddly he found he barely noticed and minded even less, perhaps due to the distracting bundle of boy cradled in his lap, wrapped in his own cloak. Harry was warm, and soft, and shockingly light. Harry's arms around his waist felt impossibly good, and his hair, despite its shaggy appearance and habit of getting in Draco's mouth, was undeniably soft and smelled very good. Harry's head also felt rather nice resting on his shoulder. And, if Draco's mind didn't keep repeating the name "Harry" over and over sometime soon, he felt he might just be forced to try it out loud.

"Umm... Draco?"

A soft, raspy whisper muffled against his throat and it sounded so good, Draco just had to try it himself.

"Yes, Harry?"

A full body shiver worked its way down Harry's spine, and Draco found he was smirking and pulling the boy closer, despite himself.

"I don't know how.. or why.. or.. well, what I'm trying to say, is...well, thank you."

Harry pulled back just enough to look into soft, curious grey eyes and still see them without his glasses, and smiled.

A warm sort of something spread through Draco's stomach at the genuine tug of those full, flushed, slightly chapped lips and, being unfamiliar with the concept of ever wanting something without getting it, he leaned forward to claim them as his own.

Harry's mouth was hot and damp, lips still salty from tears and for a moment he was so utterly rigid that Draco wondered if he might need to wake his leg up to begin running now before the hexes started flying. That is, until he felt the slightest movement and the slick slide of a tongue against his lips. The moments that followed were hot and shuddery and so achingly, tenderly slow and perfect and Draco wondered if he'd ever be able to go back to the wet, lipstick laden kisses he was use to after this. Judging by the way Harry's lips were clinging to his, the softest slide of tongues between them and the way that warm sort of something in his stomach was beginning to spread and intensify, he decided that no, he probably wouldn't be able. Luckily, when Harry finally pulled back, gasping for air he gazed up at Draco, eyes slightly glazed, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and he knew that Harry wouldn't be able to go back either.

"You're welcome, Harry... anytime."

Draco smiled back, and in that instant, they both knew he truly meant it. That night had begun like it had every night for the past week; clumsy fingers scrambling over notes, plucking out chords, tightening strings, but it ended in a way neither had ever imagined, with soft lips gliding over skin, drawing out sighs, tightening embraces. That night something changed, and while he was still the publicly proclaimed hero of the wizarding world, Harry found he didn't have to worry about dreaming anymore.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Psst... review, ok? Please?


End file.
